WeissKreuz Winner
by LoveyouHateyou
Summary: What happened at Schuldig’s apartment in ‘Whim 3 – Arrangements’? Enter one excitable firehead, plus Yohji, his golden obsession , and a rather displeased Crawford hovering in the background...


**WeissKreuz – Winner **

xxx

Warnings: male/male affection and references to sex.  
Rating: M/NC-15 for the above reasons.  
Summary: What happened at Schuldig's apartment in 'Whim 3 – Arrangements'? Enter one excitable firehead, plus his golden obsession Yohji, and a rather displeased Crawford hovering in the background...

xxx

Schuldig is crouching, on his hands and knees, over the prone form sprawled on the bed. His bed, with washed-threadbare, clean-smelling sheets that now are rumpled, dank with sweat, and rucked up over one corner of the faded green mattress. Not a futon but a bed, a good one, nice and firm, on a solid wooden frame in deference to American habits. In the hope that one day, Crawford would turn up here and stay the night.

Schuldig knows it is a silly thought, and he tries to banish it at the same time as he stubbornly keeps hanging on to the idea. Nursing it, feeding it to his feverish mind to nurture his crazy fantasies… one day, one night… sometime soon. It always is sometime soon.

The room – his room, his apartment, as he calls it, his home, no more than a dump in Crawford's opinion – is dusky and still, save for the panting of two people that is hacked and heavy in the silence that permeates the sweltering air. Summer in the city…

Schuldig has no fan in his apartment. The window is firmly shut. The heat is stifling, and the body on the bed is glistening with a glossy sheen of sweat, and down where the dusky golden trail of fine hairs melts into a tousle of darkness between spread legs, a very prominent arousal is weeping against a flat, hard belly. Thin wafers of orange-golden afternoon sunlight slant through the slatted wooden blinds, to finger over smoothly defined muscles and pale amber skin, picking out nubs and scars that mar its perfection. Tiny brown birthmarks, scattered sparsely over a sweat-beaded tawny background, and large scars, some a raw, angry pink, others faded to a silvery white. Slashes, gashes, holes and stitches.

Schuldig is busy tracing every single one with his mouth because he wants, he needs to learn them by heart. He enjoys the flavour of apprehension and remembered pain that he soaks up by tasting them.

Schuldig has his hair tucked back behind one ear, but it falls free and wild over the other side of his face, licking over his white hide like living flames as he licks over the flesh offered to him so blatantly. Trailing his lips and tongue over a clear brow and closed eyelids, down the ridge of a sharp nose, to a pair of soft lips, parted to allow a string of harsh little gasps to issue forth.

Schuldig has stripped off his shirt; the fly of his ratty blue jeans gapes open, his feet are sockless, and sweat is pooling in the small dimple at the base of his spine where the waistband of the denims exposes the beginning swell of his buttocks.

His eyes are closed, his nostrils flare, his mouth glides hungrily over skin and hair as he moves from tasting those lips to nuzzling tousled, sweat-soaked honeygolden hair stuck to a pulsing temple, a few strands smoothed in vain behind surprisingly small ears. Schuldig claws his fingers into the bedding as he begins to lightly bite at the firm shell of one ear, his teeth scraping down to maul a tender lobe before moving on over a firm jaw and silky smooth throat.

So smooth. So warm. Hearbeat frantic in the big vein there. Schuldig touches it with the tip of his tongue to feel it, taste it, savour the sweet bitterness of wilful defeat, lust and sweat.

The man beneath him is naked, arms flung out wide, hands fisting in the sheets, knees raised and apart, soles of rather large feet planted firmly onto the bedding.

Schuldig does not want to see. He wants to taste, smell, feel. Honeyed heat, spice and caramel, laced with the flavours of tobacco and a tinge of coffee. Bittersweet, just short of cloying, heady and overwhelming his senses, taking him under in a welcome storm of sensations.

He wants them all. Every last bit. He is starved, famished, parched for warmth and sweetness. He has spent what seems like an eternity to his jittery mind, doggedly working for his reward, and now he is determined to savour every last drop of it.

Yohji had finally yielded to him. At least he had the good grace to pretend just that. Allowed Schuldig to drag him along to this dump of an apartment and get him naked in a thrice. They have not let off one another since laying hands on bare skin, since Yohji kicked the door shut behind them and they touched lips in a bruising, biting, snarling kiss that involved more teeth than tongue.

Yohji had been having a black day, and Schuldig would never throw away an opportunity; he had been watching the blond to catch him out just like this. After all, Schwarz knew nothing but black days, and they got on with life regardless. They were survivors, bundled and focused by Crawford's relentless, cold energy, used to rip from life's jealous claws what it was trying to deny them…

Life was a bitch. But nothing, no one, would deny Schwarz without facing the consequences.

Not that Yohji was oblivious. He had known exactly what was up, yet he had thrown caution and the niggles of a rebellious conscience to the wind and gone along with Schuldig. Abyssinian had finally overdone it, dumped him once too often, right into Schuldig's grasp. And Schuldig caught, grabbed and held on for all he was worth.

Crawford was having a hard time with this. Because Balinese is not like the rest of them, he had ranted at Schuldig, you're going to get hurt, and you'll be bawling at me to pick up the mess. He's not like your other… playthings, that's why he got to you so damn easy. The rest of them have long since accepted their fate, we did not. We make our own. He's still fighting, just like us. I don't like the idea of him getting too close. I don't like the idea of you wandering off like that. I want you to sort it out, or you force me to do it for you…

Many words to say, _you are mine. Mine only._

You're babbling, Brad, Schuldig had hurled back at the cold glint of rimless glasses.  
Crawford had retaliated promptly, but not by saying what Schuldig was craving, and now Schuldig was sporting a black eye and a few welts and bruises to his jaw where Crawford's long, hard fingers had dug into his flesh to hold him firmly in place for a hard, unforgiving kiss.

_End it, or I will._

Those fingers caressing over swelling flesh, cooling, soothing.  
Just once, before Crawford let go and buried himself in paperwork again.

Schuldig did the first thing that sprung to his fuzzed and excited mind and sought out his favourite pastime. He tasted danger, rolling off Crawford in cold, angry waves, well hidden beneath the smoothly groomed exterior. He also smelled the tang of jealousy, rank and metallic, almost like fresh blood. He relished every trace of it. He gloried in it. It made him delirious and utterly wanton, and it put him in the mood for toying some more. Playing with Crawford and Yohji at the same time just did it… he was alive, after all.

At last, he has Crawford's undivided attention; he also has Yohji in bed and by the end of that night would have screwed him breathless. Schuldig is feeling like a winner, careless about the cost for his lot. He will pay up alright when it is time for the bill to be presented, but now he is having his cake and most determinedly devouring it.

Yohji lets him in, long legs clamping him down against that long, hard body writhing beneath him, demanding, pushy, not a trace of submission here… and Schuldig meets those hard shoves and yapped commands, not bothering about who leads and who follows, just melting into this golden heat is enough… too much… overwhelming.

The sly, catgreen gaze from beneath golden lashes, the tiny smile of lush, kiss-stung lips, the hardness of caramel nipples and this hot piece of flesh wedged between their bellies… Schuldig stares, ice-blue eyes wide, and it rushes at him like a train even as Yohji grabs his backside, long, wire-hardened hands squeezing his denim-clad flesh in a painful grasp. Drawing him in deeper, harder, faster, against those hips that rise to meet him, into this searing, boiling sweetness, and Schuldig forgets time and place as he throws himself into this white-hot furnace.

Oblivion.

When he floats back at last, he finds himself collapsed on top of Yohji, cradled by those muscular legs, knees nudging his own thighs, his face pressed against Yohji's damp chest. Just where his heart beat.

Yohji is craning his neck, the muscles of his upper body shifting subtly as he tries to smoke without moving too much or burning a hole into Schuldig's skin. "Wakey, wakey," Yohji murmurs through a smoke-laced breath, his tone dithering somewhere between amusement and wariness.

Schuldig rolls off him, flesh smacking and squelching with wetness other than sweat. The reek of sex is thick in the spent air of the room, and the hum and honk of the evening rush hour begins to seep in and saturate the stillness. The light has dimmed to a faded copper-gold, the shadows cast by the blinds are long, deep-bluebrown stripes on the worn dark lino floor.

Schuldig stares vacantly at the ceiling. Unthinkingly counting the cracks in the rendering, where the faded, off-white paint is peeling and flaking. The moistness that makes his belly sticky is cooling his skin as it slowly dries to pale flecks.

He feels… nothing.  
He is empty. Light.  
An entire eternity of emptiness.

Bliss.

And as he lets his eyes slide shut and drifts off to sleep, he decides that he was right.  
He is a winner.

xxx

**The End**


End file.
